Free Made to Love by DL Kopp Page B

thing I needed was a blow
dryer right now; I was very low-maintenance, so even the thought of
digging it out of my things right now made me scowl.  I even
limited my makeup application to mascara, eyeshadow, foundation,
and lipstick.   Just enough to not look like a
cow.
    I put a terrycloth bathrobe
on and stepped out into the house.  I found a window that
looked over the garage area and spotted my dad and Octavius. 
Dad had the hose trained on Octavius's body, and he looked
downright malicious, but Octavius was taking the spray with his
eyes closed and his arms extended.  He looked more like he was
dancing than hosing off octopus goo.  I couldn't take my eyes
off him, and I didn't much want to, either.
    Which is why I didn't
notice when a tall body approached, pinned my arms behind me, and
clapped a hand over my mouth.  I shrieked, but the noise was
eaten by the massive palm over my lips.
    I took a closer look at the
arm.  There was stitching all up and down, and at least two
different skin tones.
    Byron.
     

Chapter
Twenty-Five
     
    “ Don’t scream,” he
murmured, “please, please don’t scream.”
    Eyes bulging, I tried to
twist around to look at him, but he held me firm.  I
struggled, but his arms were like iron-clad straps holding me in
place.  It was like struggling against a tall, muscular brick
wall.
    When I realized I couldn’t
fight him, I forced my body to relax.  Byron’s hand on my face
smelled musty, with a chemical tang—like my dad’s lab.
    He breathed heavily against
my hair, refusing to budge until my body had gone completely
limp.  His breath was hot.  Even in the cold, drafty
room, I felt like I was sweltering in his grip.  He must have
been running an internal temperature well over a
hundred.
    “ Promise you won’t
scream?” Byron asked.
    No .
    Of course I wanted to
scream.  I wanted Octavius to come save me from this new
monster.  But he wouldn’t have been able to hear me out on the
lawn—especially past the thunder and the sound of the
hose.
    And yet, something in
Byron’s voice was so gentle, so fragile, like he was breakable
despite his rock-hard body.  So I nodded, and he eased up on
me.  Byron stepped back, and I turned to face him.
    I didn’t know who had
dressed him, but his fashion sense was terrible.  He wore a
plaid cardigan rolled up to the elbows over a pair of normal,
boot-cut jeans – so last decade – with brown loafers.  Byron
didn’t quite fit the clothes.  His shoulders and muscular
chest bulged against the material, and his thighs filled out the
jeans tightly enough that it looked like it might burst.
    My eyes traveled up to his
face, slowly, reluctantly—I was afraid he would be terrifying, like
the time I had glimpsed him in the lab.
    But his eyes were soft
under soft blond curls, mismatched as the colors were, and his lips
were sensitive.  His cheek bones sloped gracefully down to the
curves of his mouth, and stitches ran tracks across his face,
splitting the flesh into pieces.
    The very tips of his ears
were pointed.  I reached up with shaking fingers to trace
their edge, forgetting that I was supposed to be scared of
him.  His ears were just as attached as the rest of his
parts.  They almost looked natural.
    Byron sighed in his deep,
rumbling voice, and I realized what I was doing.  I jerked my
hand back.
    “ So you’re my dad’s latest
experiment,” I said.  He nodded silently.  “You’re
Byron.  You’re the one who cries at night.”  Another
nod.
    I bit my lip.  I
should have been scared of him, but this close, he was kind of
cute.  He looked surprisingly harmless.
    One of his hands came up,
and I stepped back, ready to flee.  He looked hurt when I
reacted so strongly, bringing his fist to his chest.  He
clutched the stem of a rose just like the one I had found at my
door a week before and was now dried and pressed to go in my poetry
book.
    “ Oh,” I said.  “That
was your rose.”
    Byron held out the